Page 174 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I don’t care why she’s telling me; the information is appreciated more than she knows.
“I’m telling you so you quit being such an asshole to him.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m always an asshole with him.”
“You ever throw a punch at him over some spilled juice?”
She makes it sound so ridiculous.
“It wasn’t the juice,” I growl.
The asshole was baiting me. He constantly baits me and pushes me to my edge. Someone needs to give him a good whooping, and I was ready for the grunt of it.
“I know.” She looks at me then, arching her eyebrows.
I wonder if I should mention the mango chunk dried on the corner of her right brow. I tighten my fingers around the wheel to resist the urge to reach over and flick it off.
The thought burns through me, dragging me back to the booth. Kneeling between her legs, gripping the back of her head, and feeling her fingers wrap around my forearm as I pulled her closer. Wiping the foam away from her face, carefully brushing it away from her eyes—taking care of her.
I can still feel the heat of her skin under my fingertips, the softness of her face as I cleared it. Like I was doing something more than just cleaning her up. I was taking care of her in a way I haven’t allowed myself to want.
Fuck, it’s all I ever wanted. Not that she needs taking care of, but it’s those moments when I want to.
“Everyone knows,” she says, and it takes me a minute to remember what we’re discussing.
Fucking Bronx.
“This Neanderthal side of you really isn’t impressing anyone.”
“I ain’t trying to impress anyone.”
“You just enjoy pounding on people any chance you get?”
I inwardly sigh, but outwardly I blow a deep breath out of my nostrils. It’s not me. Of all my brothers, I’m usually the last to throw a punch.
“You know what, maybe my dislike of Bronx is not about you.”
“You know what,” she claps back. “It absolutely should not be about me. I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but I’m not yours. And that was your choice. I don’t know why you’re acting all possessive over a book that two young people created. Not when you split right after we made it.”
I want to tell her what happened that night. Every fucking word, but it’s too late.
I know it’s too late.
And that really pisses me off.
“You know what?” I say.
She grunts. “I’m sure I don’t want to.”
“MaybeI’lldo the book with someone else.” Shit, that hadn’t been what I meant to say.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Another grunt. “Unbelievable. I tell you I’m haven’t sleep with Bronx, and you retaliate by telling me you’re gonna go find someone to sleep with.”
I should say sorry.
Quick, say sorry.
